Residue
by Englandwouldfall
Summary: The evidence of his childhood is not completely obsolete. It's there and the more John knows about it, the more he'll see it...which is why he'd really rather not talk about it.
1. The Manor

_Basically, an exploration into my questionable head canon about Sherlock's childhood. I'm really not sure about it. But, there we go, thought I might as well try._

_Warnings: bad language, abuse (verbal and physical), and an angry kid Sherlock who's liable to self destructive behaviour and angry thoughts (mostly from next chapter onwards)._

* * *

The conversation is obsolete, John's line of argument is irritating and the whole thing is just so _dull _and _ordinary _that he would rather block the whole thing out.

"It's only fair, Sherlock," John says, holding his cup of tea ransom with one of his _stubborn _expressions which – whilst is satisfyingly _so _John that they are normally interesting – yet is frustrating due to the fact that it's currently focused on him. "You might be able to deduce my life story in ten minutes -"

"_Five_. Really, John, it was hardly that interesting or remotely hidden. Ten would have at least required –"

"-well," John interjected, "_five _minutes. Either way, it's not fair that you know where my parents are from and what they studied and what my childhood was like when all I know about you is that you're _a bit posh_ and have a questionable relationship with your brother."

"A bit posh?" Sherlock repeats, smiling ever so slightly, "months of living together and your conclusion is _a bit posh._"

"Well," John said, flushing slightly, "exactly, Sherlock."

"Surely, you have a little more than that, John."

He's used this tactic before with things he doesn't want to talk about. Like 'normal people don't have arch enemies' and 'what do normal people have?' thinking that John might put the pieces together without specifically having to _admit _that he shared a blood link with Mycroft, although of course John missed the point and went off on one about _relationships. _Very telling, really, that he completely neglected to mention the fact that normal people have _families. _

"Okay," John says slowly (that _I understand what you're doing here Sherlock and I'm going to trust you on this one, _okay), finally passing Sherlock the cup of tea and sinking back into his chair, "a _lot _posh?"

Sherlock definitely smiles that time.

–

He sits in his room and writes.

_Long fingers disproportionate to the rest of the limbs (therefore fingers long due to something), well-kept fingernails, precision, sensitive to sound: piano player. _

There are pages and pages of it, six notebooks, all of it full of identifying features and observation and ways to filter all the excess of information and make sense of this madness.

_Long glances, unnecessary touches, private jokes, conscious of where the other person is in the room, seem nervous when too close together: an affair. _

"You see all this in one look?" Mycroft asks. Sherlock hadn't noticed he come in. Had been too absorbed in the paper notebook in front of him. Too absorbed in writing it all down, getting it out of his head, trying to categorise the impossible.

Sherlock closes his eyes and nods.

The world hurts.

–

_ "So, my son… what's wrong with him?" _

_"Sherlock is unquestionably bright."_

_"I think we're all aware of how intelligent Sherlock is. I know that. I don't want to hear about how Sherlock is a genius. I just want the facts – what is __wrong __with my son? Autism? ADHD? Some sort of mental illness?" _

_"He simply needs to work out ways of socialising with others…"_

_"I'm not paying you to tell me what I already know, Doctor. I want cold hard facts and I want a solution: some sort of pill, therapy, extra tuition."_

_"- Mr Holmes, I really don't think those sorts of measures are right for a child of Sherlock's age – "_

_" – so you can't fix him?"_

_"He is not __broken, __My Holmes, and I'm sure your attitude hardly helps him. He needs support."_

_"Are you questioning my parenting skills?"_

_"Frankly, __yes. __I understand it's distressing and Sherlock is difficult, but the fact remains that Sherlock is extremely talented and you should cultivate that and encourage his intelligence rather than focusing on the areas which he finds more difficult – – –"_

–

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, hovering at the doorway, "Mrs Parker is sleeping with her daughter's boyfriend – do _not _mention it over dinner."

Moments like those, when Mycroft forewarns him, he thinks Mycroft understands. It's not that he _wants _to tell others, but by the time he's worked it out (only a few seconds) it comes out his mouth before he realises he's not _supposed _to say.

It's not Mycroft's fault, precisely, that he missed the fact that the boyfriend was sleeping with Mr Parker too – the tell tell signs not becoming obvious until after the formal dinner had started, when Sherlock was already _looking _at them and then _speaking _before Mycroft had a chance to capture his attention and tell him to _shut up. _

Sherlock remembers Mycroft's fingers pressing into his forehead, Mummy's shoulders tensing as if waiting for something terrible to happen, and then stark line of displeasure on his father's face. He remembers the hand closing over his shoulder, Father's breath much too close to his face, and the words that were thrown at him; _you fucked up, Sherlock, you freak. You failed again. Just keep your mouth shut – – – _

–

Mummy has more tact. _I'm not saying you're wrong, Sherlock. _She runs a hand through his hair (he doesn't like the physical contact, but it's not so bad from _her) _and looks at him with big wide eyes. _There's nothing wrong with you, Sherlock, you just need to... need to... learn how to communicate better. _

It's easier then because she tells him what he's done _wrong,_ and then it's easier to break it down at work it out.

Communication; the imparting or exchange of thoughts, opinions, or information by speech, writing, or signs.

So then he studies the tone of people's voices, but that's hard _too _because intonation is difficult to decode and sometimes people say sad things with a smile, and then people _lie _and Mycroft and Father have a tendency to _communicate _something different as to what is _happening. _There's not enough data, either, with just Mummy and Father, Mycroft and the nanny. He needs a wider database and there are no books on the library which explain emotional responses and how to communicate without upsetting people and why it's not okay to tell the Nanny that her husband might not have left if she didn't eat so many biscuits (Mycroft said that it wasn't clear cut; that she ate more biscuits because the marriage lacked stability, and then that worsened the problem, and the whole issue escalated).

Mummy does try to _explain _(sometimes, often she's quite busy), but there's no real _reason _why people would prefer not to be dissected and prefer him not to notice things – at least not one that Sherlock can understand – and she gets tried and frustrated and says _not now Sherlock_, takes her pills and goes to bed – – –

As always, with Mycroft, it's a competition. Not because Mycroft wishes to compete, but because Sherlock is continually and always trying to prove himself to his big brother: Mycroft is clever _and _well liked, shapes himself around situation and smoothly shifts from persona to persona, perfect towards everyone. Father gleams with pride and Mummy _smiles _her drug-incurred-pretty smiles.

"She's having an affair with the gardener," Sherlock says, "she left her earring in his quarters and he returned it under the pretence of asking her about what flowers she'd like in the hanging baskets."

"A little transparent, don't you think?" Mycroft asks, "Even the house keeper picked up on their affair, Sherlock, it's hardly a _secret._"

"The husband knows."

"_Everybody knows." _

"Well," Sherlock says, turning to glance back over at their guests before flicking his gaze back to his brother, his curls bouncing in his wake, "The gardener doesn't know the husband knows."

"Obviously, Sherlock," Mycroft says. Sherlock narrows his eyes, squaring his shoulders. Subtext; _what did I miss then, if you're so clever? _"A little strange that the gardener should have his own quarters, don't you think? Unusual protocol... and you can tell by the state of his shoes that he's being well looked after. So, the husband knows. _Why _would a husband cater so much to the whims of his wife's lover?"

"To prevent her from leaving."

"No," Mycroft says, cutting across him, "he is a man of honour, which is why the gardener has been kept in the dark about his knowledge. The wife... she is materialistic, selfish, rich. She has no intention of leaving. She loves neither man. So, Sherlock, why has the gardener been given quarters?"

"How can you tell she loves neither?"

"She's flirting with Father," Mycroft says, bending his head closer.

"She's making him jealous."

"He can't see," Mycroft says, "there's no relation to the amount she's flirting to whether or not either man are paying her the slightest bit of attention. This is what you _miss _Sherlock by writing of social interactions as unimportant. I'm not suggesting you _engage _in conversation, but maybe if you understood it –"

"Georgia is the gardener's baby," Sherlock says, "the husband wishes the gardener to have access to his daughter, due to his own alienation from his father."

"Well done," Mycroft says, his very expression _mocking him, _"you are now aware of just as much as e_veryone else _in the vicinity. Now, Sherlock, all you have to do is practice how to _shut up – – –" _

–

_"Mycroft seems to think that if Sherlock... if Sherlock were to have some creative outlet he might be able to channel his emotions into something."_

_"The child doesn't have emotions, Violet, stop being so damn sentimental."_

_"Sherlock's different... but he's not, he's not a bad child, Siger."_

_"You think you'll hand him an instrument and he'll become a different kid?"_

_"No, that's not what I'm saying. It's just Mycroft seems to think that Sherlock has a lot of potential and that he just – "_

_"- just what? Repeatedly embarrasses us. Can't be trusted to talk to anyone. You think music can fix that? That he'll stop dissecting rats and creeping people out with his all seeing, all knowing observation nonsense. Stop blurting out people's secrets."_

_"Siger – "_

_"Buy him a violin if you want to buy him a violin. You know my views on the matter."_

_"He's your__ son__."_

_"Doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to be locked up. Be safer for everyone."_

_"He's __harmless __– "_

_"Just get him the bloody violin. I don't care about this anymore. I'd rather not think about that kid ever again, and especially not now – – –"_

–

The Manor is his childhood. All sense of nostalgia and connection to the way he once was (young, vulnerable, unrefined) is seated within the Manor: all of it tied up neatly and locked away in some distant part of his Mind Palace and not to be thought about too much. The residue is there, of course, but he knows enough about people to know that the residue is _always _there.

It's more difficult to unearth than the basics – occupation, sexuality, motivation – but it's never too long before the traces of a childhood emerges; John, with his feisty sister and closed minded parents, not quite middle class and not quite working class, suburban estate, kicking a football around and wanting to do _something more _with his life. It is, of course, all very ordinary and quite predictable and written across the way John _lives _and _thinks _and his relationship with his sister.

Sherlock is the same. Despite the years of almost homelessness and drug abuse, the manor is written across him. A stamp. So blindingly obvious. It's there in John's blog, with his absurd description ('a bit public school'), and it's there in the fact that he can't _stand _to be wearing the wrong coat or using the _wrong _tea, an acute awareness of how things _should _be done and that every present desire to rebel against it. It's evident in the way that he has been _trained _to behave in a certain way. _Diluted aristocracy _seems to leak out of it.

It cannot be helped. And it cannot be helped that he is not beyond the continued pull to adhere to his background, or rebel against it, and seek continued pride or disappointment from _Mummy _and _Siger. _It seems, that is part of coming from someone.

And when John asks him, which perhaps he should have suspected, and he has to drag up some dregs of what was from the Manor and explain how he came to be, he is sure that John is surprised by Sherlock's awareness of how it shaped him.

Of course, that's why he tends not to think on it too much.

* * *

_Next chapter: Sherlock meets school (and cigarettes). _


	2. Cigarettes

It's a fucking nightmare, really. And he's out back in the gardens, smoking cheap cigarettes he picked-pocketed from the secondary school kid who beat him up for calling out their adulterous mother after school. He's probably too young to even bother _smoking, _given without a continued supply of cigarettes and the speed of which he's getting through the packet, he'll be out in a couple of hours but that's not really the point.

The point is that it feels good to self-destruct a bit. They're bad for you, cigarettes, and whilst he doesn't set in store by other methods of self-destruction (self-harm always seemed a bit redundant and all attempts came back mostly unhelpful, he'd decided that given he spent half his life getting himself beating up the effect was lost on him somewhat – did provide some interesting lines of inquiry about scarring, though), there was something about the nicotine that wasn't bad. And the point is that he actually hadn't meant to cause trouble this time, it had just _happened. _

Mycroft reckoned that it didn't just _happen _and that Sherlock could easily prevent such occurrence if he made a constituted effort, but after his second effort had nearly resulted in a broken nose Sherlock had stopped bothering. By that point, they'd already made up their mind and Sherlock was the weird _cocksucker _(his question as to whether they understood what they were implying with that insults had only resulted in anger towards him increasing) and he decided that the sooner he wound up with a serious enough injury the sooner Mycroft would admit that attending _school_ rather than continuing with his home-schooling and tutors was a bad idea.

And hopefully, that would stop them from continuing ahead with protocol and sending him to some posh, tight arsed boarding school where, of course, he'd fit in even less than he does with the slightly _less _posh Primary where he is currently being forced to spend his days, when he isn't off sick with various ailments – usually signed off as 'Sherlock's a very curious boy, and subsequently ends up injured often' rather than the more truthful _bastard father with a low tolerance levels for difficult son. _

Course, Mycroft seems to think these incidents are entirely preventable. That, just because Mycroft has some ability to _see _things and not feel the need to comment on them it changes the fact that Sherlock's brain is continually racing out of control, always one step ahead, taking in too much data and trying to focus it. Trying to anchor himself the present.

He's nearly at the end of his cigarette. He idly wonders whether the other brands are preferable to this _particular _one and whether or not it could be possible to differentiate one cigarette brand from another by the taste alone, or may be by the ash, but it's easier to wonder about those things with the nicotine rushing round his head. He closes his eyes and concentrates on _that_ instead.

He thinks, maybe, that smoking so many in the one go was possibly a mistake, but it took a few to get the hang of it, and his nose was still bleeding from that last hit to the face, although that was nothing to the twinge in his shoulder (it had been dislocated some months before and now the area was excessively sensitive) … it wouldn't have been a problem to deal with _him _had his fifteen year old brother not gotten involved, but…

"Sherlock."

It's Mycroft, so there's no point trying to pretend about the cigarettes. If it was Mummy, he'd have been able to fob her off with something or other. She wouldn't believe it, but in the interest of keeping the peace she'd place a hand on the back of his shoulder and guide him back to the house in silence. The House Keeper, who is essentially supposed to act as Sherlock's nanny but does a piss poor job of it, would just curse a lot and not mention it (providing that Sherlock shut up about the fact that she just left him to his experiments instead of bothering to watch him). Siger… well, Sherlock would be shutting down his brain and concentrating on relaxing his muscle so whatever it was didn't hurt excessively by now.

"I should think _nine _is too young to acquire a smoking addiction."

Mycroft is amused. If Sherlock had been wanting a reaction – which he think he might have been, actually – then the whole situation has fallen on death ears. Mycroft, who seems to be able to call the shots despite the fact that he's _not that much older, _has this god awful expression that screams of superiority and make Sherlock want to scream.

Sherlock crushes the cigarettes in his left hand and concentrates on not getting upset. He's not sure whether the nicotine is detrimental or helpful towards the goal of emulating Mycroft's usual unaffected expression, but he's sure his brother knows full well that Sherlock wanted _something _and is entirely sure that he's going to deny it from him.

He feels transparent. Smoking in the grounds was stupid, of course, and he knew someone would find him, or smell the smoke on him, or find the cigarette ends trod into the bit near the pond which Sherlock favoured. Mycroft knows that. In his imagination, Sherlock envisioned being dragged up to the house by Siger and, a couple of bruises later (it was never really that bad, Siger never did any _actual _damage), Mycroft would appear in his doorway and instead of his usual tight lipped expression, or explanation of _what Sherlock did wrong this time, _he'd offer him what he was digging for: he doesn't want sympathy, just some acknowledgement that what he's going through is fucking _shit. _

He _hates _the fact that Mycroft can see straight through him, despite all his barriers, and tear him apart but, worse, is the fact that Mycroft is the only one with the capacity to understand and precisely chooses _not _to understand most of the time.

"Or is this another attempt to get yourself hurt?"

"No," Sherlock says, cigarettes crushed in his left hand, not turning around and staring out towards the pound, "it was an _accident._" Which, of course, is perfectly true.

"Who?"

"Marcus Slater."

"A _secondary school pupil," _Mycroft drawls, still smiling at him, still _amused, _"my, Sherlock, are you _okay_?"

"Yes." Sherlock spits, fists bawling. _Mycroft _never has to deal with people who think with their fists and, sometimes, he'll offer Sherlock titbits of affection – he'll assassinate their characters and insult their intelligence and tell Sherlock that people who fall back on violence are largely mentally incapable of doing anything clever. _Mycroft _somehow ensures everyone loves him and thinks he's _intelligent _with a _bright future _whilst Sherlock is a human punch bag because he doesn't know when to shut up.

"Well," Mycroft's fingers close over his shoulder, "you _won't _be if Father catches you out here." Mycroft eases the pack of cigarettes from his fingers, hand pressing into his shoulder (it doesn't hurt much, but it's there). "Let's get you inside, Sherlock." Mycroft finishes, leading Sherlock back into the manor.

The rest of the cigarettes are disposed of, his clothes are placed in the wash and he is pushed into the shower. Mycroft lies smoothly to Mummy and Siger over dinner about an incident involving chemicals at school, which earns him slight disapproval but nothing else (a big improvement on normal), to explain why Sherlock's curls are wet and still sticking to his forehead. As always, Mycroft takes care of everything.

Later, Mycroft slips into his room and slides into the bed next to him. Sherlock wants to yell at him, scream, self-destruct, but finds himself gravitating towards the possibility of his brother's chest; Sherlock breathes in time, fitting underneath his brothers arm and closing his eyes tight shut. He hates himself for this _pull _towards Mycroft but cannot shake it.

"Do not smoke, Sherlock," Mycroft says, his voice softer in the middle of the night than it is in the harsh light of day time, "procuring cigarettes is a pointless waste of your time, they stretch beyond the reach of your funds, incurring an addiction age nine is certainly ridiculous, and it will _not _help."

"What _will_?" Sherlock asks, grappling with the dark feeling of hopelessness that bubbles up in his chest. He doesn't _want _to be branded a freak and be unlovable, as such, but there's just so much _going on _all the time: there are tastes and smells and wrinkles in clothing and so many infinite possibilities about the way that world can be, and burning _constantly _at the back of his mind is _why? _And unless he understands something about what all these things mean then he's not sure of anything; unless he can label that particular crease as _was folded after ironing _and that one was _not ironed _and that as _ironed in a rush _then he can engage with a scene and make _sense _of it, but without that knowledge his mind is racing trying to explain all these variations and _things. _

And if it's trying to work out what wearing the same shirt two days in a row means, he misses the bit when someone asks him a question. If he asks them to repeat it then he feels _stupid _which he is not (and before they realised he was a freak, Sherlock's intelligence was applauded), so he skips the questions and replies with something irrelevant about how they're sleeping with their secretary because then at least everyone know he is _thinking. _

"Everyone else manages, Sherlock."

"I'm not e_veryone else," _Sherlock mutters into Mycroft's chest. He's acclimatised to words like _different _and _special _(although that one primarily and only come from Mummy, who seems to remain maternal and protective despite the fact that her husband is a bastard), and is fully aware about the incessant desire of others to _categorise him _and work out what's wrong with his brain and why he can't function like normal people can. He's not unaware that everyone he's ever met is trying to explain his abnormality away. He doesn't lack self-awareness, or any awareness, it's just a matter of what to do with all the relevant information.

"Your self-inflicted view of being _different _hardly helps, Sherlock."

"You're different."

"Yes," Mycroft admits, arm stretching round to Sherlock's shoulder and pausing there, "the trick is to ensure that everyone thinks you have the capacity to be normal, and are simply above it."

Sherlock closes his eye and tries to tell himself that he has the capacity, but convinces no one. By the time he's run through a list of scenarios where he could potentially be normal and tuned back into the presence, Mycroft has left.

_Mycroft. _Such a self-satisfied bastard, Sherlock decides, balling his fist into his shoulder. He got the same bunch of shit after the self-harm experiment; amusement, then selfish irrelevant advice that didn't address the problem of how it was _possible _to give off an expression of being normal. And still, Mycroft doesn't seem to realise that Sherlock is _miserable _and _hurting _and _not okay. _

Sherlock thinks maybe next time he'll attempt to kill himself. Then Mycroft will have to pay attention.

If it proves his point, he's not altogether sure whether it matters if he succeeds or not.


	3. Hurt

He had known the Summer Holidays would be the worse.

Hence why his school reports reported '_an improvement of behaviour towards the end of the term' _that he was '_less of a destructive presence in classroom situations' _during the final two weeks and that they '_hoped Sherlock would continue to reign himself in and cooperate with others when school resumed in September'. _He had simply stopped talking, taking almost everyone by surprise, shrinking into himself as he thought about just _what _was waiting for him.

He is sprawled out at the bottom of his bed, one arm pressing into his gut and the other flat out on the floor to stop the world from _spinning _and he intends to remain like this for at least a week; that's not feasible, of course, because presumably he will need to eat and use the toilet at some point, and he's sure Siger has not quite finished with his concentrated anger at being reminded of his continued existence. But no one should bother him for a few days.

_Except. _

Footsteps outside his door, women, heels, tentative; Mummy's. She pushes open a door a crack (and the light hurts more than Sherlock wants to think about), but not enough to see him, and her voice permeates his bubble of silence and relative safety.

"Mycroft is here," She says, her voice off from too many antidepressants, "dinner in twenty minutes. Be presentable."

Mycroft.

Oxford did, of course, have summer holidays too... but Sherlock hadn't anticipated his brother coming home. Given a visit hadn't been mentioned, and the fact that Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that he could walk at the moment, he suspected his parents hadn't either.

_Presentable. _

It would be exactly what they deserved to have Sherlock stumbled to dinner, blood still clotted on his face from the nose bleed, unable to sit straight due to the pain in his gut and have to face Mycroft's anger. _Then again_ he'd said he didn't want to return home in the holidays in his letters to Mycroft, expecting him to read between the lines or at least offer him a place to stay, but his reply had been terse and unhelpful. Mycroft didn't _care_ anymore (if he ever had). He'd left and written Sherlock off as something he used to have to deal with, and he wasn't sure he wanted to face up to dinner _unpresentable _with the knowledge that no amount of wincing would make Mycroft give a shit that after he left things went from _bearable _to _awful. _

Its two minutes of swallowing back the pain and pushing his threshold of tolerance until he can sit up properly, and by the time he's made it to the bathroom he's only got fifteen minutes to become _presentable. _There are stolen painkillers under the sink, along with some of Mummy's surplus antidepressants and at the moment being lucid rather than hyper aware that _everything _fucking hurts seems quite tempting. _Fifteen minutes. _And dinner will be full of him concentrating hard on not speaking too much (which he has discovered is the best way not to piss anyone off) and _Mycroft. _

He takes both and then sets about cleaning up his mess of a face. Siger had been counting on the fact that no one needed to see him until the end of the Summer, so it's all bruises and slightly swollen and he doesn't know what Mummy expects him to do about that. It's not like he has the resources to make it all fucking disappear (although efforts have been made) – _presentable _is a bit of a lost cause.

He does look better without the blood clotted on his face, though. And between Siger and everyone at school, it's not like he remembers what his face looks like when it's not slightly bruised.

This time he hadn't even tended to his escalating injuries. The norm involved ice packs and the like, but he hadn't had the inclination to do anything but pass out on the floor and count on the fact that he'd be left alone for at least a week. Siger didn't actually want him dead, after all. Just _different_.

Five minutes and short of _makeup _he can't do much about his face. Instead he struggles to get dressed then practices facial expressions in various degrees of impassive; testing which way he can move that doesn't hurt (of which there are none, but it's all relative).

And then it's down the hall and towards the dining room, his best Mycroft-face plastered across his features. Neither of the pills have done anything yet, but even the efforts of his self medicating makes him feel slightly better. The world's still spinning, though.

Mycroft hasn't changed much. Put on weight. Older. More self satisfied than normal. Still a bastard.

"You're late." Siger spits out, gaze boring into his skin.

"Apologies," Sherlock returns, stiffly, sitting down and meeting his eyes (_'just fucking look at me Sherlock. Don't deduce me and tear me apart like some psycho and don't stare at the wall or whatever else has captured your bloody interest. It makes people uncomfortable. You make people uncomfortable. You look at people in the eye when they talk to you. Just fucking look me in the eye, Sherlock')_, "I lost track of time."

"Apology accepted, Sherlock," Mummy says, reaching out for her glass of wine and _smiling _as though this whole charade might actually be causing her some degree of pleasure, "It's so nice to be reunited for dinner. What a nice surprise."

"My business in Oxford concluded much sooner than I expected," Mycroft says, his voice not quite right – other than the expected superiority complex, there's something else underpinning his tone that Sherlock can't put his finger on.

_Don't stare at people Sherlock. A couple of seconds and then look away. Jesus, why can't you just be fucking normal?_

Sherlock looks away.

"Let us know next time," Siger says, his voice as smooth as ever, "we'll have a proper celebratory meal."

"Quite."

The subtext is there. If you give us some warning, I won't beat Sherlock to a pulp just before you come to visit. Next time, you won't have to visually face that problem that you no longer care about.

_Well, _Sherlock thinks idly as the soup arrives, _I don't give a shit either._

0o0

Mycroft lets himself into the room without asking so Sherlock doesn't react at all. He remains completely stagnant – on his bed this time – one hand still covering the worst part of the pain and his gaze focused on the ceiling. His second dose of painkillers has kicked in, but it means he's almost certainly going to run out before the end of the Summer holidays.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, looking down on him (as always) although it's difficult to say which of his startling range of impassive expressions he's employing from this position on his bed, "what's wrong with you?"

"A constant source of inquiry, that."

"Sherlock, get up."

"_No_."

_"Sherlock," _Mycroft says, his voice bordering on dangerous. But it hardly matters any more, given Mycroft neither cares nor has any immediate effect on his life anymore. Mycroft _left _and the occasional combination of physical and verbal abuse (a destructive mixture) became a part of his routine, lined up with his holidays from that god awful boarding school and lasting the duration of his stay in the Manor. Whatever _Mycroft _wanted was irrelevant. "You were quiet and polite throughout dinner."

"I thought," Sherlock says, "that was the point."

"The point?"

"_Yes_," Sherlock sits up at this point, feeling something a little like rage stir up in his stomach. He hadn't really felt much but muted dread and the anticipation of this pain for a long time, and he's not sure what to _do _with this sudden burst of anger. Particularly given the fact it's unfounded; it's not Mycroft's fault and he doesn't care either way, so it's a matter of most irrelevance. He'd accepted that.

The thing was, it had never been that bad; never anything Sherlock couldn't _deal with. _Mycroft always said the damage was really done to his _ego _not his _body _and more so, that was the point, and if Sherlock would just _stop _behaving how he did then it would _stop _too. And he got that – he got that he was _not right_ and then Siger was attempting to make him _right _with some attempt at operant conditioning that wasn't really working in practice.

And suddenly the odd punch became a blow to the head and he spent the entirety of his holidays recovering from whatever was done to him, the continued undercurrent that if he just _stop being such a fucking freak _underneath it all reminding him that this was _his _fault.

"Lessons in etiquette," Sherlock spits, "Operant conditioning. The continued efforts to _fix _me."

"_He _did this?"

"What did you _think _happened?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wrote to you." Sherlock says.

The room is silent for a moment. Sherlock still sat on his bed, expression defiant, and Mycroft looking somewhat lost. _Guilt._ That was what Sherlock had heard in his voice earlier; guilt.

"So you intend to spend the rest of your holidays inside this room?"

"Preferably," Sherlock returns, "without company would be even more so."

"Have you _fixed _your brain, Sherlock? Are you intending to become _stupid? _Planning on ignoring your mind in lieu of _fitting in. _I am here, Sherlock, because of reported _concerns _regarding your grades."

"Haven't you got better things to do than intercept my school reports?"

"Not _talking, _concerns about your diet, no altercations with other pupils; Sherlock, you are _depressed._"

"Don't worry," Sherlock scoffs, "I have a daily increasing supply of Mummy's anti-depressants."

"This is serious," Mycroft says, reaching out for his shoulder, "s_how me, _Sherlock."

"_Fuck off_."

He's not going to win this one. Mycroft is already calculating how, exactly, he can force Sherlock to show him and given that Sherlock can barely walk there's no way he's actually going to get away with it; still, he's up and scrambling away from the reach of his arm. Mycroft's too quick (always one step ahead of him) and he's caught and twisting his arm. _Smiling, _again, _why is Mycroft always so sodding amused? _

"I suspect you are not up to fighting me at the moment, Sherlock." Mycroft hisses, but Sherlock _does _manage to twist away – just for a second – before his brother has him pinned against the wall.

_"New job?" _Sherlock suggests, breathing heavily. "Came from London this morning. Another promotion. On another fucking diet. Gir..._boyfriend – _so you finally came to terms with it then, congratulations. _Gold star for Mycroft. _Planned to come home at _least _two weeks in advance, meaning you _did _suspect something _–_" Mycroft reaches out and lifts the shirt covering his stomach – which took the biggest beating this time – and draws in a breath. It _does _look ugly, but then again it also fucking hurts so that balances out. "– which means you _knew _and you did nothing to prevent it so _this is your fault._"

For a second, Mycroft's finger brushes across one of the worst bruises. Then, he's stepped back and the ugly mess of bruises is hidden again.

"Be reasonable," Mycroft says, curtly, "it is hardly logical for this to be my fault."

"Fuck you," Sherlock mutters, throwing himself back on his bed (even though it hurts) and slamming his eyes shut, "fuck you, Mycroft."

He hadn't quite understood the level of influence his brother had in regards to him. Mummy seemed to think that, although she was clueless as to what to do with him, Mycroft had some insight. She fed these insights to Siger and then the decision was made; Sherlock was ready to go to school, Sherlock should be sent away, Sherlock would benefit from leaning a musical instrument.

And with that endless list of suggestions of solutions to that _what do we do to with Sherlock _problem dried up, it just resulted in his father being pissed off beyond usual degrees and prepared to do anything that he believed would help: his misguided and frankly questionable techniques of employing him as a kick bag every time he looked at someone wrong was shit, and also completely Mycroft's fault.

"You will come and stay with me for the remainder of the Summer Holidays."

"I hardly think that's a sensible career move."

"Well," Mycroft says, "some things cannot be helped."

"Wrong on two accounts, Mycroft. Top form as normal. I will _not _stay with you."

"For heaven's sake –"

"-I'd rather stay here getting _beaten up _than be anywhere near your _pathetic life, _Mycroft. Because our parents are preferable to putting up with your stuffed up shit. I am staying here. I've never _needed _your help."

"Mummy wishes me to take you away."

Sherlock turns to face the wall, pressing his forehead against it. Right here, with his hand crushed under his side and the duvet around him, it's easy to block everything out and pretend that everything doesn't hurt. He can concentrate on his racing brain and piece together bits of information and sift through them. He can categorise and rationalise thing and organise the big freakish _mess _of his brain into something that's almost manageable.

"Apologies about the embarrassment of my school grades," Sherlock says, the sarcasm so think he can taste it, "it won't happen again."

"I'm leaving you the number to my direct line. Call me, Sherlock."

"Unlikely."

It's far too easy to drive him away.

0o0

He didn't mean to memorise the number but its there at the front of his brain, running round it, haunting him. His breath has hitched in his throat and _god _he's crying and he hasn't cried for years, but there's this excessive of emotional stuff that he hasn't dealt with for _years _and it's rising up and choking him; _good God it hurts. _

He's stopped in the middle of the street, fingers (left hand) closing round the lamppost for support. He's retching. There's so much wrong in him that he could never throw all of it up, but its bile and he's dizzy and... There's a phone box.

He _swore blind _he'd never call. Barely considered the possibility of actually picking up the phone, but then – for all his brain – he never considered this. Even the moment went Siger's hand closed around his hand, even when he was forcing them backwards, even after he heard the _snap _he couldn't quite believe what had happened; that, despite it all, his father knew him well enough to pick the single sensitive spot in his armour.

He didn't _care_ about his body.

He's picking up the phone, heart hammering, tucking it under his elbow so he can punch in the number. _Shaking. Emotional. Weak. _It's dialling and he thinks Mycroft probably won't even pick up, the bastard, but then he does on the second ring.

For some reason that makes him cry harder.

God, he can't even believe he's crying, but he's falling back against the side of the phone box and slipping down it trying to concentrate.

"Mycroft," Sherlock manages through his erratic breathing, phone tucked beneath his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

_"Sherlock, " _Mycroft is deadly and alert and, right in this second, it is difficult to remind himself that Mycroft doesn't care. "What's _happened_?"

He's done it now. There's no turning back from this. Mycroft can _hear _the fact that he's distressed and if he hangs up he'll just trace the call and find him, it won't take much to work out what's wrong with him. And it's so stupid that he wants to pull his own hair out. He wants to hurt himself for such an _idiotic _reaction.

"He," his voice catches, a stupid emotional response that he can't seem to control, "he broke my fingers."

_It's the violin. _

The only time he can think clearly is when he's playing. It's the only time anyone appreciates his genius, the only time he channels anything of what's running through his brain into reality, the only thing that made him _glad _he wasn't normal.

"Where are you?"

"I ran."

"I'm sending someone to you. Half an hour."

"Fine."

He drops the phone and fumbles for his cigarettes, lighting it and smoking it awkwardly with one hand and trying to calm himself down. He _will _be able to play again. He knows about bones and the chances of this causing permanent damage, and its low, but he can't get the possibility of being unable to play forever out of the front of his mind; it's like he's about to go blind, deaf, some level of reality taken from him. He _needs _to play. He _needs _it.

Within the hour, he's at a private hospital.

Four days later, Mycroft shows up.


End file.
